I borrowed $33 trillion in Yank money from a feller and now I can’t find the stuff to pay him back. Its a dashed whatsit . . . contretemps.
Oh, I say, dash it, ye olde witches were rather sporting. Dashed adventurous of the old biddies. But one rather draws the line at hog pens.
Oh, I say, dash it, have you seen the latest thing? Mugshots! What ho, what ho, what ho!
Many is the crime I have assayed to commit when conscience, the clarion voice of the angel within, whispered in my ear, “Bertram, what would your mother say if you were to be nabbed with your tie in its current less than perfect state? What price the mugshot, Bertram?”
To which I replied, “conscience, old bean, thumbs up and +1. You’ve struck the nail on the flat surface for which striking is ideal, viz, the head.”
I noticed a bunch of posters sprouting all over the house. “Vote [X] for President!”
Me: You are running for President?
X: I am running for Student Body President.
Me: You’re homeschooled.
X: I know!
Update: (more…)
As all the world knows, when a suave man of the world such as yours truly stumbles into possession of the Hunter B. laptop, one may be excused a certain bumbling in trying to dispose of the Loathsome O. I rather fear, dash it, that in accidentally becoming engaged to Director Wray’s daughter I may have taken the thing too far. Rather frosted the jolly old cake, what? Not least among the scaly features of aforesaid contretemps is that the gray matter refuses to remember how to spell Buriesma. Byurisma. Thingummy.
Amigos, Mike Fink here to let on to an entirely natcheral moment o’ doubt. Yep, some fellers are inveterate boasters but Mike Fink don’t cotton to none o’ that. I hold strictly to the dadgum provable truth, yessir, my Daddy was George Washington and my mother was a geometric proof and I’m 150% factual, I cain’t nohow tell a lie.
It is therefore in the intrists of exactitudinous precisement and muh congenital humilities that I fess up that the US government has challenged me to a fecklessness contest, and I am in no ways sartin that I will win the whole shooting match. It will take a powerful lot of preparation.
In a world where people are having trouble ‘adulting’, and where both lower and higher education are in complete shambles, it behooves us to understand what ideal education looks like. And what it is for.
I was pondering AI, and what jobs it will eventually replace and I thought, ‘At least spirituality will be something machines can never do.’
Then I realized that is what a Urim & Thummim is.
The doings at the Drones Club are as sprightly as ever. Rolls whizzing to and from, young blood distinctly young and bloodish, bon mots of the bonest. Rep. “Reppie” Thomas H. Massie had a good one that he shared with all and sundry to general acclaim.
.@repthomasmassie on his #RawMilk Bill and the lactose lobby in #DC pic.twitter.com/RI97JEY766
— Free the People (@freethepeople) March 12, 2023
Although still a frolicsome life of the party and whatnot, your Bertie has had to return a dashed nolle prosequi when viands and potations are pressed upon him. I’m in training. The boys have signed me up for a bank run.
I was out of town this weekend, so I attended a different ward. Different, and yet so much the same. It was Fast Sunday there. (more…)
Ok, in all seriousness, this says far more about the quality of AI checkers than anything else. Really they are just a fig leaf to comfort educators.
Still, the humor of it all did not escape me.
A pal of mine who is some kind of nob invited me to a shindig last night at a gentleman’s club called the Old Cap. Quite the impressive pile, one approves. There were women among those present, one expects that these days, but without particular reference to the gentler sex one feels that the club’s committee needs to be a dashed sight more selective in accepting members. Wield the old black ball with a sprightly hand, my dear selection committee members, forsooth. I observed to my pal that the American style of architecture preferred its gargoyles inside instead of out, what ho, what ho. He was a bit shirty about it.
The bash, or doings, were of the most peculiar kind. Rather a ritual sort of thing, don’t you know. After a good deal of this and that, a doddering old fellow, some kind of mascot one presumes, stood up and began a rather extensive recitation regarding the “state of the union” while acting in the character of the U.S. President. One gathers the whole thing partook of the jocose.
One is not surprised. My mind boggles like billy-o that anyone would think a chappie like Wodehouse would be swanning around in footerbags like a bally fascist, shouting ‘Heil’ to this fellow or that fellow. Or that he would muck about with the Serene Soviet in the labour interest. No, the shot is simply not on the board. The Conservatives had all the best clubs
Dashed Fink-Nottle has had the immortal crust to open a dashed school for dashed rhetoric for politicians. If the babblings of the blighter in his cups can be trusted, some of the most prominents sorts of chappies attend, like that fellow Brandon or the old boy from Harvard, Ketterfish or Fettleman or some such name. It astounds the mind. There is blasted Fink-Nottle, touting to all and sundry his supposed success at the Market Snodsbury Grammar School, and teaching these respectable political johnnies to appear on the hustings blitzed, or soused if you prefer, out of their ever living minds.
I think the worst part of being at a nudist colony would be being naked around a bunch of naked people and also they are the kind of people who would be at a nudist colony.